There’s a cop named Brenda who comes in there every morning, and she allies herself with Lindy—once, she up and handcuffed a guy who was mouthing off too much. She didn’t release him until he promised to leave a ten-dollar tip. Sometimes, if the place is really busy, Brenda will run around and take orders, then go back to her own breakfast. I tried to help out once, but Lindy fired me, saying I made the customers feel bad about what they ordered. “I didn’t say a thing!” I said. And Lindy said, “You didn’t have to. Your little nursey face said it all.”

When Chip and I come in, Lindy looks up from wiping down the counter. “Hey, Myra! Where you been? I’ve got the butt end of a ham saved for Frank.”

“He didn’t come with me today,” I tell her. Then, pointing to Chip, I say, “I brought him, instead. This is Chip Reardon.”

“How you doing,” Lindy says, and Al offers a manly nod—the upraised chin variety.

“You want a table?” Lindy asks.

Always, I sit at the counter. But she can see that today I want some privacy.

“Sure,” I say, and head for one in the corner.

“Not that one,” Lindy says. “John Harris is coming in.”

I look at my watch. “It’s way too late for him.” John is a big deal in our little town—has a finger in every pie. He’s like the mayor without being the mayor, and he has a permanent table at Ned’s.

“He’s got a meeting,” Lindy says. “He’s probably taking out a contract on somebody.”

“Yeah,” one of the guys at the counter says. “He’s taking it out on you, Lindy, for not ever keeping a goddamn coffee cup filled!”

Lindy looks up from the dishwasher, where she’s been loading plates. “You want more coffee, Freddy?”

“I guess I do.”

“Well, I guess if you ask me nice, I’ll think about it.”

“Aw, Jesus,” Freddy says. And then, in a singsong falsetto, “Oh, please, Lindy, could you find it in your heart to give me a little more coffee, please?”

“That was pretty nice,” she says. “Now, I’ll think about it.”

Freddy gets up to fill his own cup.

Chip and I sit at a table near the door. It’s where Lindy sits to refill the condiments, when the place quiets down. That’s usually only at three o’clock, when they close. Not that they really close. They put up the “Sorry!” sign, but then they hang around and cook for the next day, and if someone comes in and wants to eat, they feed him.